That's the journey of a writer, long and winding. Ups and downs, rejections, joys, acceptance, laughter, tears, community, and yet a sense of loneliness. The road is bumpy, often full of potholes, and yet it's one we gladly follow, for we are writers and writing is a part of our soul. Join me on my journey.

Wednesday, April 04, 2007

Nathan

The Devil You Know is a story of a man struggling to find out who he is through the fog of amnesia. Is he Everett Rush, a traitor to his country, an Agency assassin, or something much worse. As far as Maddie and Travis are concerned, he’s Everett – because sometimes it’s better the devil you know, than the one you don’t.

When I first wrote this book I fell in love with the character of Travis, which isn’t good when that’s not the hero, Nathan Phillips. The problem was how to get into the head of a man who had no memory. Nathan turned out to be too somber, too full of angst. I decided that maybe he still had a sense of humor. Yeah, that would work.

Below is the original scene in which you meet Nathan. Your first impression. I’m going to use it as a flashback later, btw. But anyway, you’ll see what I mean tomorrow when I post the new introduction of Nathan. Remember, this is raw and unedited.

The swish of the door woke him. Keeping his eyes closed, he listened as the nurse busied herself about the room. Breathing slow and steady, he waited until she had left before opening his eyes. The tiled white ceiling, the same one he had stared at for close to a year, came into focus. The hospital was quiet in the pre-dawn light, so quiet as to be almost deafening. He lay still for a moment, gathering himself for the coming day. The dreams from the night before stayed with him, clinging to his mind like wispy cobwebs; cornstalks, a large house with many halls and doors, everything turned into mazes. Stretching, he winced as pain shot through his left leg. Running his hand across his face, he rubbed out the last of the cobwebs, ignoring the ridges that lined his cheeks. He never felt so alone as he did upon waking, when memories reached out but eluded his grasp. No matter how disorienting the mornings were, however, it was the black of night that terrified him. Sometimes he dreamed of the accident, the pain so intense to be almost real. Those dreams woke him in cold sweats, his heart pumping wildly beneath his chest. But those night visitors weren’t the nightmares that robbed him of sleep, for the accident was real, and real things could be grabbed and dealt with. It was the seemingly benign, the places, flashes of people’s faces, not clear enough to hold on to, to trust as memories, instead of imprints of someone else’s life. These were the true demons of the night.